


Yellow Eyes

by AQuietThinker



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1973, Alexander Hamilton Needs Sleep, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler-centric, Angst, Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Poor Alexander Hamilton, Sick Character, Sickfic, Sickness, Yellow Fever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQuietThinker/pseuds/AQuietThinker
Summary: Before Eliza could reply, as he noticed little Angelica smiling at him from the top of the stairs, a thought reached him.He 's sick.He’s sick and could infect his children. His Eliza. And they could easily succumb to illness, die in his arms just like his mother had.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	Yellow Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, ladies and gentle-thems, my first Hamilton fic. I did some research for this little one-shot but there are still some medical inaccuracies. Basically how Eliza and Hamilton survive the Yellow Fever 0f 1793

The hot humidity that slips into the room through open windows only added to the thick, nasty atmosphere of his office. Even after shedding off his coat and vest, the light fabric clung to his frame with sweat, which had begun collecting on his brow and dripping on the wooden surface of his desk. As he dipped the tip of his quill to the ink, he noticed how the black liquid had thickened and barley clung to the white tip.

Around three of the many clerks of the Treasury Department had already fallen ill to the mysterious fever, and Alexander could note the edge of stress in Washington's voice whenever they met. The president already had pressure upon him due to his position on neutrality with French conflict, but due to the escalating deaths, neither him nor Hamilton had gotten sufficient sleep.

Quietly, he put away the ink jar and stared at the unfinished document. Its pale, yellowish colour nearly matched the hue of his own skin. The words were becoming blurry, but he already knew its contents: a quiet, private plea to the president explaining his fears over early symptoms.

He wished he could just push the burning headaches, stomach burns and trembling limbs to the back of his mind and continue his work, but it became too obvious. Even some of his aides have begun to keep distance and offer him damp handkerchiefs during the hot afternoons.

No more work could possibly be finished on time during the week, and talk of leaving the capital circled around many political figures. He reckoned he’d have to speak to Washington about it- whether they should stand bravely through the crisis, or leave to avoid the risk of death among the country’s leaders. Slowly, Alexander finished the letter, waiting a few moments for the ink to dry before folding it and letting in slide over another stack of documents. Someone would mail it soon enough, and all he currently had in mind was succumbing to the softness of his bed.

The Treasury building of Philadelphia was not far from his own home, but his legs strained and refused to walk at their normal pace, making the trip longer and painful. When he finally managed to open his front door, the distant sound of children's voices made him smile. He let himself fall on one of chaise lounge and close his eyes momentarily-

A cool hand on his forehead roused him from the impromptu nap, and all he could see were Eliza's worried eyes.

“Darling? Are you feeling alright?”

Alexander could barely hold himself together, and took her hand up to his lips to press a kiss. The woman smiled down on him gently, but behind the small wrinkles that formed next to her eyes, he could sense an amount of worry.

“Dizzy, and…. cold.” He vaguely heard his own voice before Eliza’s mouth twisted away from the beam.

Before Eliza could reply, as he noticed little Angelica smiling at him from the top of the stairs, a thought reached him. 

He 's sick.

He’s sick and could infect his children. His Eliza. And they could easily succumb to illness, die in his arms just like his mother had.

“Betsey, I need to go.” he murmured.

The woman frowned. “What do you mean? You just arrived-”

“Betsey, the fever. I’m sick. The children-” 

Just as he tried to finish the phrase, his stomach convulsed and liquid flooded his mouth. He managed to quickly locate a small bucket, previously placed in front of a window to avoid leaks, and let his mouth’s contents drip off.

Before he can push her away, Eliza’s hand rubbed soothing circles on his back and gently pushed stray hairs away from his face.

“Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“The children-”

“Once I help you to bed, I’ll have Annie take them with Mrs. Haydeen.”

“No, Bestey.” he crokes out, feeling his throat burn with the acidic fluids. “It's the fever. Take them away from the city- you as well. They’ll… I can't kill them or you. Please, I can’t-”

Another round of churning on his body rendered him speechless and leaning on the bucket heavily. Eliza’s concerned hands never left his shoulders, but he does hear her distantly ordering Annie around and the shuffling of small feet. When Eliza helped him stand, he could see Angelica’s blue eyes gaze at him momentarily before the maid ushered her and her siblings out of the door.

His world blurred as they slowly made their way upstairs, and his stomach could barely contain the bile as Eliza momentarily sat him on the bed to fetch some water. Just as her grounding hand disconnected from his shoulder, the world began to spin. The last thing he sensed was the sound of Eliza’s panicked scream as he saw the floor come closer.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Chills run down his spine and vomit rouses him from untranquil sleep dozens of times. Every time he opens his eyes, Eliza’s chocolate eyes lock on him, full of so much kindness and care, that he feels like sobbing and begging for forgiveness all over again.

She had already told him he had won her forgiveness, that the pamphlets and thoughts of red fabrics were already erased from her memory and their marriage remained harmed but strong. She had already kissed his head when he kneeled and expressed heavy guilt. 

After a whole night of delirium and vomiting, he found a few moments of clarity to ask her for a few things and she tried to force some broth down his throat.

“Promise me, Betsey-”

“I do.”

“Please. No bloodletting."

“I know, darling. I spoke to Ned Stevens earlier. He’ll be here soon.” as she spoke, strands of her hair fell on her face. “Now please eat.”

He was only able to down a few more spoonfulls before his stomach turned on him and Eliza took the near full bowl away. He wants to push the hair away from her face and gently caress her pale cheek, but his arm refuses to move. He whispers more apologise before darkness consumes him again.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

The next time he wakes he’s surrounded by ice water and for a second, he's back in Saint Croix, and his mother’s cold, dead arms are wrapped up tightly around him, and he just wants out, out of here, out of the dream-

“Alex? Open your eyes for me, please.”

A rag of water pressed against his forehead and all he sees is Ned Stevens concerned features perched on him. His able hands are pressing him to the tub, and Eliza is nowhere to be seen. His teeth begin to chatter, but continue to do so long after Stevens replaces the water with a warm towel.

The physician’s hands treat him with gentleness, he is unable to even strike a small conversation. During one of the cold baths he glimpses at the wall mirror, but only yellow eyes stare back at his soul.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Washington sends his concern soon enough, and Eliza calmly reads him the correspondence by his bed whenever Ned rushes to check on other patients. Her voice is angelic as she repeats herself whenever his mind rushes to pay attention to other creaks of the empty home. 

“.... With extreme concern I receive the expression of your apprehensions, that you are in the stages of prevailing fever. I hope they are groundless.”

After some time, she begins working on embroidery again, but he can only stay focused on her features. Eliza has aged, gracefully, but forcibly by the string of grief he’s laid on her. However, her eyes still shine and she sends him loving glances often, never showing her physical exhaustion or even an ounce of anger.

He wants to pepper her with kisses, her neck, her cheeks, her forehead. He wants to hold her in his arms and burrow his face on her shoulder and tell her how much he loves and adores her.

His voice falters, but Eliza does not.

“I love you too, my darling.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

One night, he wakes up in a tumble of nightmares and bell tolls, but Eliza’s missing from her cushion. His eyes frantically search the room, and panic floods his weak system when he finds her.

Ned has her in his arms, a wet rag pressed against her forehead, and in the pale light of candles, she looks smaller than a child. Her hair fell loosely against the physician's shoulder, matted with sweat, and her eyes were closed.

For a brief eternity of delirium, Alexander can only think that she’s dead.

She looks just like his mother all those decades ago, delicate and motionless, skin the colour of canary yellow and dry lips, where small drops of bile still dry out.

His mind shrieks out in pain, because this couldn't be possible. Not his Eliza. God, he had already brought enough turmoil to this family, already damned them with embarrassment and grief, but now he had killed the one star of sweetness and hope that remained. All his prayers have vanished, and it’s his fault that the angel God granted him has now ceased to breathe. 

Throughout his turmoil, Ned seems to have noticed the panicked whimpers and offered him a tiered smile. As he laid the woman on the bed beside him, he took his hand up to her neck.

“Press, Alex, press. What do you feel?”

He swallows back tears and realizes, through his own mad headache, that a pulse beats against his digits. Her chest faintly moves up and down. She's breathing, she's alive, and he has not become a murderer.

With all his possible strength, Alexander managed to roll himself and gather her feebly in his arms. Eliza exhaled softly against his neck and it was all that mattered.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Her eyes are yellow. The colour seems to have flooded the white seas around her irises, and it haunts his dreams. His own eyes are the same, but it's easier to ignore his own pain rather than see its reflection in his angel’s orbs.

\- - - - - - - - - -

During one of their afternoons, Eliza begins to convulse violently, but Ned is not present in their house. He tries to gather her in his arms and press soft kisses on her forehead, but she only vomits dry heaves and whimpers in pain. Alexander prays, nearly screams out so that she’s delivered from this anguish, or that at least he receives it in compensation for her health.

After an eternity a stronger hand pulls him away, and he catches a look of a smaller woman that carries Eliza off to the unknown. The set of dark skinned hands treat him as well, pressing a bowl of brother that he pukes out moments after taking and lowering his fever with wet rags.

When Eliza is delivered back to his bedside, they've already cleaned the sheets and placed fresher ones, apart from dousing the majority of the room with vinegar. As the pair of heaven sent saviours prepare to leave, Alexander finds a final surge of strength to grasp the man’s hand.

“Where do you come from?” He whispers.

A friendly face meets his eyes.

“We represent the equality of men in times of crisis, Secretary Hamilton. Richard Allen sent us.” The man’s hand presses him back against the pillows. “Now rest. You are in dire need of sleep.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

Time passes. They stop hearing the church’s bell in the afternoons, and t he summer’s humidity is replaced by cool autumn winds. The fatigue still confines them to bed, but Alexander finally manages to stay conscious for long enough to hear and read letters out loud, depicting their children's shenanigans up in Albany. It does not take long after for him to hold a book in his hands and read for half an hour.

Eliza takes more time, but begins to gain her weight in a steadier process than himself, quietly sending him flirtatious winks as she drinks brother and moves onto tea and soup. Her eyes return to their brown splendor as the yellow fades from their life.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Come to bed, Alexander.”

The quill is still perched on its copper holder, next to the many letters from Albany. Alexander had already read them many times to Eliza, but his eyes linger on the words at the miracle that his family is still intact.

He turns his gaze to his wife, who is still in bed. After extinguishing the candle, he stands up and makes his way to the bed, wrapping himself up besides her. The sheets still have the faint smell of vinegar, but their window allows the breeze to cleanse the room.

“Just a few more days and we are clear to see them again.” he said.

Eliza’s fingers hold the back of his neck against her chest. She’s deadly thin, but her features remain stunning in his eyes.

He traced her collarbone with his fingertips before sitting up till their eyes meet. “What did I do to deserve an angel like you?”

She just smiles, offering him her delicate hand and leaning back on the pillows. And Alexander Hamilton, finally hoping that perhaps tonight the heavens will grant them with peaceful dreams, kisses her hand.

**Author's Note:**

> While the Hamiltons did indeed catch the yellow fever, all I wrote is historical fiction. Now here's a fun fact: It was originally, and falsely thought, that African-Americans were immune the fever. the Free African Society was a group of free african-americans that attended many victims during the whole crisis. I don't know if Hamilton ever came in contact with them, but thought it was a nice touch.  
> Ironically, many people died from bloodletting rather than the fever due to it weakening the victim. Ned Stevens was against that practice, and therefore he and Hamilton deliberatly went against Dr. Benjamin Rush, who was Philadelphia’s most prominent doctor and agreed on bloodletting. This caused huge rift with followers of Rush, who was aligned politically with Thomas Jefferson and his Democratic-Republicans. They denied different treatment methods that Hamilton, and therefor Federalists, used. 
> 
> Comments ALWAYS make my day, and if you have questions about the Fever, I just became a self made expert. Stay safe everyone, and happy holidays!


End file.
